Dä
by awesomesen
Summary: WWII. Denmark is occupied, Germany is unwilling, and Prussia just doesn't want some damn Austrian running the show. Multipart.
1. Charming Men in Uniform

_This is a story I've wanted to try writing for a very long time. This makes it harder, not easier. As a note—although I usually try to go as heavily historically accurate as possible, in this 'fic I'm trying to focus more on character than exact politics. This also includes finding a place for Prussia, seeing as who even knows what he was up to at the time (He was officially kind of dissolved before the war started, what even)._

_I would also really appreciate feedback and reviews; I hate asking like this but all the stories I post here get a lot of favorites and alerts… but no response, and that's kind of discouraging. Especially as I'm very unsure of how to write Germany, I'd really, really appreciate knowing how my driving is._

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DÄ**

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**chapter one.**

As a reward for cooperation, he will be allowed to maintain his own house as usual, provided, Germany explains, he follows a few simple guidelines. He provides a copy of them on heavy paper, and Denmark spends the lecture feeling the fibers of it under his fingers instead of listening.

He's not wearing gloves, although he'd like to. It's symbolic. Well. It's orders. He keeps thinking about the expensive, heavy paper, and wonders who Germany is trying to impress.

His surrender is handled efficiently and formally, and leaves Denmark feeling dry and hollow. There's no overwhelming sense of loss, rage—anything. Just his heart pounding heavy in his chest. He shakes hands with the appropriate people, but when Germany comes over, he refuses.

Even Germany's hand is formal, all fingers straight, arm bent at ninety degrees from his body, following procedure to the letter. When he realizes Denmark has no intention of shaking his hand, he drops it without complaint. "I'd like a tour of Copenhagen," he says, in a way that's an order.

His boss affirms that that's a good idea, and only Christian sternly meeting Denmark's eye keeps him from punching them both in the jaw. "Of course, Denmark will be happy to provide it," he says in perfect German.

Denmark still wants to punch someone, but Germany isn't meeting his eyes. He counts to ten instead. "C'mon then." In Danish.

Of course their bosses don't come along, although Christian _could_, there's no danger to _his _safety. But that's just how it is. More symbolism. The officials can pretend to make nice if they know their countries are doing the same. Politics on a personal level. The Germans see Denmark being friendly and think the occupation will go well; the Danes see Germany taking an interest and think the same.

He thinks symbolism is really just a kind of lying. A way of pretending things are one thing when they actually mean something else. Don't wear gloves, it'll make you seem more friendly. Use heavy paper, it'll show respect. Denmark doesn't want to be friendly, and he doesn't want Germany's damn respect. A war isn't about paperwork. If they want to torture him, kill his people, they shouldn't hide it behind heavy paper.

But Christian was very clear, so he shows Germany the harbor.

People stare as they walk past, a man in a Danish uniform and a man in a German one. The streets are empty. Most stores are closed. Some recognize Denmark, but he isn't greeted with the usual smiles and chatter—a few dirty, angry looks, and more expressions of shocked betrayal.

The harbor is as subdued as the rest of the city, although most of the fishing boats are out for the day. Even in times like this, people need money. Especially in times like this. The harbor is usually one of Denmark's favorite places to be, among the ships and boats and sails. He'll climb aboard and help the sailors, throw bread to the gulls, watch the water for seals and mermaids. But he doesn't want to be here now.

Germany scans the docks and Denmark supposes angrily he's counting the ships. "It's nice," Germany says at last. "Berlin's landlocked."

"Yeah, lucky ya, having a new port." Germany looks at Denmark and then pulls his hat down, letting the comment slide. Denmark wants to shove him into the water—or better, jump in himself, swim hand over hand across the Sound. North, to Nor. He's heard the rumors, you bet.

East, to Sweden.

Anywhere, if it wasn't next to Germany.

But he doesn't really want to leave, and the ground beneath his feet isn't German. Yet. "Copenhagen harbor," Denmark says, waving his arm expansively. "C'mon, I'll take ya to see the mermaid statue next."

He likes giving tours of his capital. What nation doesn't? And what capital is better than his? But the empty streets, the sound of Germany's boots clicking against the road. Some flags are missing, some are at half mast. No one, it seems, is sure how to proceed. But hell, the last war was almost a hundred years ago.

They go to the mermaid statue. Germany admires it dutifully, claims to like the story. Denmark for once in his life has no desire to brag.

Next they go to one of the old shopping districts. Denmark provides trivia about it's past. Germany comments on the smell of baking bread from one of the shops, still bravely open in the face of it all, and asks Denmark what kind of bread it is.

Denmark is willing to bet Bornholm Germany knows the smell of rye bread when it's being baked, and wonders what the hell the nation is playing at.

He leads him to the Church of Our Savior, and Germany comments on the church spire. It's closed off for the day, of course. "I'd like to climb it sometime," Germany says, and once again Denmark is fighting the urge to punch him in the face. How dare you imply you'll be here long enough to climb it when it is open. How dare that be the truth.

Instead he tells Germany about the history of the church, about how sometimes his capital is called the City of Spires, about some of the other churches in Copenhagen. Germany asks about the architectural styles and Denmark almost falls into that trap, that old hobby, the baroque of this church versus the rococo of the Marble Church, the muscowite revival of another, the renaissance style of a fourth—and he starts to talk about it, too, windows and arches, and then catches himself when he sees Germany watching. _Listening._ And then Denmark catches on.

Germany isn't just feigning a polite interest in the city, he _is _interested. He might as well be a tourist. Rather than being comforted, Denmark's annoyed. Annoyed by Germany's mispronunciation of Danish words, annoyed by his interest, annoyed by his uniform, his face, his appearance, his _being_. His politeness. His gloves.

His goddamn heavy paper.

Finally Germany asks if maybe they could get a drink, and that's it for Denmark. Christian's orders be damned, his own desire for _several_ drinks be damned, he is not taking Germany for drinks, even if Germany paid. Let it lead to a fight. Please God. He stops in the middle of the street and says "No."

Germany walks on another step before he realizes, and turns. They stare one another in the eye, and Germany looks away first, turns his head and coughs. "Very well then. Can you lead me back to Christiansborg? I'm not exactly sure how to get there from here."

Denmark thinks of blood and axes and grown men barricading themselves away in terror of him. He thinks of Prussia in the '60s, rifle and bayonet and then when all else failed fists and knees and boots, of coming home bloody and broken, hungry and cold. No one had helped him then, and he'd lain in bed for weeks with Ice bringing in fresh bandages, unable to walk without a crutch until his body adjusted to no longer having Schleswig and Holstein supporting his leg. That had been an honest loss.

He is well rested, well fed, and leading Germany on a sight-seeing tour of his capital. The difference made him ache. All he wanted was to be punched, and Germany wouldn't give him even that.

"Sure," he says, and does.

It's dark when they do get back, the April night turning chilly. Most of the streets are dark, but Christiansborg is still blazing with lights. There are times electricity still feels very new to Denmark, unnatural, and the glow feels that now. Like a beacon he doesn't want lit. There are German soldiers everywhere, many of them greeting Germany formally when they see him. Denmark uses the main entrance, the formal one, the one he used to use when this really was a palace and only that. The tiled floors echo their steps—more soldiers here, too, leaning against the pillars, but mostly tense, watchful.

But not too tense. They're at ease, not expecting a fight. He knows enough about soldiers to read their body language, and he looks at Germany almost amused. Leaning against pillars? Talking amongst themselves?

"Not very Prussian," he says, and enjoys Germany's blush.

Security is never something Denmark has worried about, and he doesn't start now; it's just the fact of them, milling about, watching. They're waved through the checkpoints and then they're back in the meeting room. Some Danish soldiers are here—he can sense them, and tell by uniform—but of course, so's the head of state.

Two of them, he supposes. Technically. It's not just bitterness: as a kingdom, he's never really _gotten _the whole Chancellor thing.

More papers have been signed while they've been gone. He can see them on the table, and Christian is signing the last as they walk back in.

There are more hands to shake, more smiles to give; you can't just casually arrive at these things. He catches Germany greeting his boss in polite German. The man asks him what he learned, and Denmark eavesdrops, even as he stands next to Christian, pretends to read one of the new agreements. Something about grain.

Germany only replies that he can see why Copenhagen is called the City of Spires, and that it's a lovely city. Denmark had been sure he'd have at least counted ships in the harbor, although of course Germany could still be sitting on that information.

He's not sure if he's glad or further annoyed. But Germany's boss smiles like a weasel and replies that yes, the Danes have a _very _lovely country, and Denmark settles on annoyed.

Christian is giving him another look, so he makes his way over to Germany and gives his boss a formal greeting. They shake hands. He isn't wearing gloves, either, and his hand is dry and cool. He'd have preferred slimy and disgusting, but clichés aren't too common in real life. "It'll be a pleasure to work with you," he says to Denmark.

Germany looks pained, and Denmark decides that telling him to go fuck himself wouldn't work out well for his people. A beating is more honest, but honesty isn't the point anymore. "My best wishes for the future," he says with his biggest smile, all his teeth showing. "Germany's interest in cooperation will not be forgotten."

This is a phrase that basically means nothing, but Denmark's never been great at political talk. Germany winces, but his boss seems amused more than offended. "I always enjoy meeting you nations."

"Guess that's why yer tryin' to collect 'em?" He's kind of enjoying watching Germany's face twist and contort. Now his boss is less amused.

"_Dänemark_," Germany says, almost as two words, and he imagines soldiers lined up for drills. "A word outside."

"Yes," Germany's boss says with that smile again. "I think that would be wise."

"Would it?" he says low, his heart pounding excited.

Germany's boss puts a hand on Germany's shoulder, smiles at Denmark almost kindly. "Be gentle. He just needs a reminder_."_

Germany's face goes blank as he nods. Denmark carefully avoids looking at Christian as he walks out, practically leading the way, practically skipping. They don't go outside, just to an empty hallway—that's as long as Denmark can wait to punch Germany in the jaw, in the nose, in the gut, one-two-three, honestly drawing blood.

Germany responds with a right-hook, and Denmark backs off, grinning, spitting out the blood in his mouth. "Remindin' me, sausage?" He punches out again and it connects. Four to one. Dammit. "Come on, ya faggy moron!" Five. Six. Seven. Germany hits him once. Eight to two. _Dammit_. Denmark shoves him against the wall. "What kind of damn lesson is this?"

His arm pressing against Germany's throat. Germany looking very slightly to the side. "Dammit, ya prick!" Denmark swears and lets him go, digging out a handkerchief from a pocket and throwing it at him. Germany's blows were pathetic and will leave bruises, but Denmark aimed well and split his lip, hit his nose, drew blood. "Fuck you. Clean up. I'm not allowed to fucking beat ya up, am I?"

Germany cleans up. "It would be frowned on."

Denmark would accuse him of having a sense of humor, but that would be too much. "Dammit!" He punches a wall this time. "Heal yerself fast. Should be easy with all your new land. And for God's sake, fight next time you're in a damn fight! What are you playing at?"

"I didn't want to fight you," Germany says after a slight hesitation.

"Yeah, fuck you up the ass." Denmark runs his tongue over his own split lip. Germany's new bruises are fading already, but he has the feeling he'll have no such luck. They'll walk back in and everyone will see Denmark's hurt, Germany's fine, and think Denmark was punished for his mouth after all. And Denmark will have goddamn learned. Because if Germany had chosen to let his bruises remain, things would have gone much worse.

He won a fight and still goddamn lost. Germany hands him back the handkerchief, and Denmark knocks his hand away. "Keep it, it's fucking spoiled now."

"Danmark." And now he's saying his name in Danish. "I never… this isn't personal."

"Like hell it ain't personal."

"I didn't want this."

Denmark can't, won't deal with this right now. Not today. Not now. Hopefully not ever. "Get out of my sight, _Tyske_."

Germany closes his eyes for a moment, then carefully folds up the handkerchief and puts it in his pocket. "Alright. But our bosses will want you in there, too."

"Tell 'em ya knocked me unconscious or something," Denmark mutters, leaning against the wall.

"I won't."

They stare at one another. "Fine. Fuck you. _Fine_. Your _boss _is waiting."

He says it like an insult and means it like one, although even Denmark isn't sure what it implies, but Germany just smiles ruefully, mouth closed. "Yes, he is."

And there are more papers to sign, more hands to shake.

Of course there are.

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**footnotes.**

• Dä—German abbreviation for "Denmark" (Dänemark). Originally, there were no finalized plans to invade the nation, just to take over the northern part of Jutland, but Hitler himself crossed out _die Nordspitze Jütlands _on the plan and replaced it with _Dä_.

• The Little Mermaid statue is a famous Copenhagen landmark. It was erected in 1913.

• The Church of Our Savior is a relatively famous church in Copenhagen, with a unique spire—an external staircase spiraling up it, with great views of the city.

• Rather than bore everyone with the details of the differences in the architectural styles, let it just be known that Denmark is referring to four churches in Copenhagen—Church of Our Savior (baroque), the Alexander Nevsky Church (muscowite—it's Russian Orthodox), the Church of Holmen (renaissance), and finally the Marble Church (rococo), which is a nickname for Frederick's Church. Given how well known Danish design in furniture and architecture is, and given that Sweden kind of took over the furniture niche in Hetalia (and in real life with IKEA), I imagine Denmark is a bit of a fan of architecture.

• I do not actually recall if the surrender meetings were held in Christiansborg, but assumed so for the sake of the story.

• Denmark teases Germany over the guards not being Prussian because the Prussian military was always very well known for their discipline, even more so than the German. Although them too.

• Denmark's insults are less insinuating Germany is those things and more him yelling out whatever bad word he can think of.


	2. To Stall What is Done

_Thanks so much for the reviews! As a couple general responses—I don't think Germany is a bastard about WW2. We've seen him in the strips, clearly not thrilled with his boss's orders to take over Austria; I don't imagine that in general he (the character) would have been super gung-ho about invading his neighbors, even if it did believe in the war and the justifications. So while writing him as a bastard is dramatic, it feels mean to Germany? Also, haha—I agree with everyone who said Denmark and Germany should interact more. Especially because historically the Danes tend to have been rivals with/wary over the Germans (I'm talking pre-Germany), even though culturally they're very close. I don't imagine them to be good friends on a person-to-person basis, but Germany's definitely a notable presence? Denmark's known Prussia longer, of course._

_Now, this chapter—it's a bit more introspective, which I am normally quite bad at writing, and uses gratuitous original characters, speculation on how nation people "work," and is generally more of a "filler" chapter between important scenes. I don't think this story will cover the entire war, but even so, there's a lot of time to cover between 1940 and 1943._

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**Dä

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**chapter two.  
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Things settle down. They always do. The shops open up again, and the signs of Germany are at a minimum. Soldiers in the streets, a few flags here and there, but at least Germany was as good as his word on this: he can maintain his house as usual.

And he does. After a week of sleeping on benches around Christiansborg, he's called to meet Christian in the stables one afternoon. When he arrives, a groom is helping his boss prepare his horse. Christian is dressed formally, standing straight as ever: he looks at Denmark sternly. He's taller than Denmark is, at the effect is pretty intimidating.

"You should have taken a bath five days ago."

But he can tell Christian isn't in a bad mood, even though nothing about his appearance reveals it. He just _knows_, so he half-heartedly straightens his shirt. "It ain't that bad, I jumped in the sea yesterday."

"I meant it as a dismissal." Christian climbs smoothly onto the horse now, dismissing the groom. He's always stern, always formal, but now they are the only two in the stable. "Go home, Denmark."

"You're going out riding now?" he asks instead.

"Yes. And you aren't to come with me."

That's fine with Denmark. He's not much of a rider, never has been, and it's symbolism anyway. He'd rather show Denmark's freedom by kicking the Germans out, but even after only a week, that's starting to seem like a repetitive whine. "Okay. I'll go in and try to talk to the telegram people, get through to Ice—"

"Denmark."

He looks up at his boss, sitting ramrod straight, uniform perfect, horse perfect, and still wants to argue, even though he knows soon he won't have the room to. "Okay, okay, look, I'll go rest at Frederick's, okay?" Christian's elder son. While most royalty is fleeing, Denmark's heard, his is staying. And that's something he _is _proud of.

Ingrid is due any day now, too, and checking up on her is another worry. Of all the times to have a baby—

"You will go to your own home in Roskilde an stay there until I send for you again," Christian says, and there's the order. Denmark winces. The horse paws at the ground, impatient to be standing in one place. But neither of them move. "I understand your concerns."

"I should stay here." He has to obey the order, but he can talk back all he wants.

"Your people will feel better knowing you're healthy and acting yourself." The horse moves again, and Christian pulls on the reins. Denmark steps back. "And that includes going back to your usual laziness."

He's not sure if that's a joke or an insult. Isn't it supposed to be good? To be around, attend every meeting, see every person, to stay in the capital like his boss is? It's not like he can die of exhaustion or a crick in his neck—probably—and it's been a week.

Surely it won't be too much longer.

"I will be departing now," Christian says formally. "Go _home_."

So he does.

Another thing Denmark's never had to worry about is transportation, and the trains are even running as usual. He has to wait at the station for a bit, but is in Roskilde soon enough, and from there it's not a long walk to his house.

It's a nice neighborhood, and a nice home, two stories and red brick with a small white fence that matches the windowsills. He knows his next door neighbors by name, has a small garden to grow vegetables and flowers, and is only a short walk or bike ride from the cathedral.

He's rather proud of it.

He opens the gate, unlocks the door, looks around. It's dim, will be dark soon; the house gets plenty of sunshine, but it's getting late. He goes to the kitchen. He'd left in a hurry last week, and he sees some bread going moldy on the counter. Might as well throw it out—along with some meat. The milk is turning but not quite sour, so he pours it in a dish and calls for the cat.

There's no responding patter of feet. But it has been a week… his stomach turns. Denmark's had that cat for ten years now. He's not a cat person, nor is it near and dear to his heart, but still… to find it dead on top of everything else…

But he'd left the back window open, so maybe it was just gone mousing or wild. He takes out the trash and turns on some lights, turns on the heat.

The house is silent. Denmark calls for the cat, looking through the house. The kitchen, sunny and yellow. The dining room, a little more formal, natural woods and modern. The sitting room, comfortable, with bookshelves framing the fireplace and radio. His study, not often used, paperwork lying everywhere.

Upstairs. A clock ticks in the hallway—it's a grand old thing that he picked up around 1800. It doesn't fit in anymore, but he can't bear to throw it away. It remains the only other sound in the house besides the furnace starting. Faeroes' bedroom, small and pink and feminine, is empty.

So is Greenland's more spartan room. There are still two beds, from when he shared it with Iceland, but since Iceland had gotten home rule Greenland had taken to using the extra bed as shelving for books.

His own room, the big double bed with enough pillows to drown in, is also abandoned. No cat. No territories. No one.

Denmark sits down on the edge of his bed for a while, listening to nothing. The phone doesn't ring. No one knocks on the door. No one yells in the street.

After a while, he gets up and takes a bath.

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Anna Fisker from next door comes over when she sees him in the garden, stops at the fence in a timid sort of way.

She's about fifty, married for thirty years, two sons both grown, and has been Denmark's next door neighbor since she was eight years old and her family moved to Roskilde.

"Hr. Preben?" She knows perfectly well who he is, but hey, what else is his human alias for? His boss and friends don't use it.

He stops fiddling with the shoots of flowers, leans back on his heels. He has to do something, even just pretending to garden like this. Christian still hasn't sent for him. He's restless.

He can see, just glancing at her, that she has questions. And suddenly pretending to garden isn't enough. Pretending to be busy, pretending life is normal—if this is symbolism, then—he forces himself to smile. To show his teeth. "Hey, Anna."

"How are you?" she asks, a perfectly neighborly question.

How do you think, he wonders. I took off in the morning a week ago and cam back yesterday. Oh, yeah, and we went to war in the meanwhile, surrendered, and there are Germans here, too, I can feel them moving around, they've even been in the cathedral, and you've seen them too, when you were out shopping? You're worried, but you're glad, too, because this way your sons won't have to fight and there's less chance of dying: better to go along with it, that's what you think, better to avoid a fuss. Your husband's planning to slowly withdraw your savings and hide them, just in case, and you're planning to stock up on food before rationing kicks in. good, practical Protestant thinking, no running around excited, no danger, no fuss.

She's not here to ask neighborly questions of him, even if she did call him Preben and not Denmark, but he didn't expect her to. "Everything's great," he tells her.

Then she invites him next door for a drink.

There are potted flowers everywhere in the Fisker house, and there's also the cat, sitting perched on the back of a sofa. "I saw you leave, and when I saw him in the garden I took him in," Anna explains when she sees him look—surprised and relieved. She makes coffee and gives Denmark a mug.

He helps himself to sugar from the dish, and waits. His moment of bitterness is passed, but he knows she's not being neighborly in having him over. But that's also okay. His relationship with humans is like that, and anyway, he doesn't blame her. He's been over here plenty of times socially. Denmark helps himself to some biscuits, too.

"Will things really be alright?" she asks, leaning over the table towards him.

There are a lot of answer to that. "Of course!" He drinks some coffee. "Look, I've known Germany since… since he was tiny. He's not… I mean, Prussia's way worse." This feels like several lies stacked on top of one another, and he feels like his expression probably shows it. He considers adding _besides, his boss has a crush on me_, but decides that might be vulgar. "Have ya listened to the radio? Christian's out ridin' his horse, same as always. I mean, the other bosses left, but he knows it's safe here, and if the king's safe, so are you."

Usually, he knows, Anna is titillated by mentions of the royal family, enjoys hearing reports from them and hearing Denmark use their first names and informal language. He'd hoped the mention would appease her, but it doesn't seem to today. "No one would hurt the king, but us… common folk—"

"Hey," Denmark says sternly. "No one would fucking dare hurt anyone here." She still looks worried. Scared, he guesses. Scared, he _knows_. Can feel it, the undercurrent of it, and maybe that's another reason Christian sent him away, so the entire government wouldn't see his nervous breakdown when it hits. But dammit, he can't be alone like this, or alone with his next-door neighbor and the cat. He can't call overseas, can't send messages, and he's sent out letters but doubts that will work. All there are are vague reports on the news and the thrumming feeling of people, soldiers, in his waters and on his land. He can pretty much see Nor and Sweden's houses from his coasts, and still feels more cut off than he has in years—since Nor and Sweden's house amounted to the same thing. Ice, Green, Faeroes—you're not the only one worried about your kids, he wants to tell her, kind of, but he knows, unlike her, that even if the worst happens, his territories will survive it. So he smiles, teeth. "Hell, ya live next door to your Kingdom. This street's the _last_ place Germany's men will show up, you know?"

It takes her a moment, but she smile shakily, deciding she's okay with selfish comfort. Most people are. She reaches her arm across the table, and he lets her squeeze the top of her hand. "Thank you," she tells him. "and God bless."

He eats a biscuit and after that talks about the royal family, the Princess's pregnancy. This time, Anna enjoys it.

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A week later, Prussia shows up.

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**footnotes.**

Christian X, king of Denmark, was one of the few monarchs who did stay in his country during the war. Although he was kind of unpopular before the war for his very traditional views, his behavior during the occupation endeared him to his people forever: there are all sorts of stories about his actions, some true and some not, but it is true that he took a ride through Copenhagen on his horse every day, without a single guard. This was a great gesture, and if you look up photos of it online, they're really amazing to think about. Even the Germans thought it was interesting, although of course _they _used it as a sign that Denmark loved Germany and was totally at peace with the invasion, not as a symbol of Danish safety and sovereignty.

Princess Ingrid was a Swedish princess, married to Crown Prince Frederick (later King Frederick IX). Although her father, the king of Sweden, urged her to evacuate, she refused. The pregnancy referred to is that of her first daughter and present Queen of Denmark, Margrethe II, who was born only about two weeks after the invasion.

"_Besides, his boss has a crush on me_:" Hitler… really liked Denmark. Actually, most of Nazi Germany did. Not only did Denmark have a ton of great farmland and food to supply the army with, but Denmark was often held up as the aryan ideal: blond haired, blue eyed, tall and strong, and the "Nordic" race was idealized to a scary extent. The Nazis also used a variation of the Nordic Cross in their flag, and appropriated symbols from the old Norse religion here and there. Although Denmark was definitely a useful possession in more traditional ways—ports, access to the Baltics/North Sea, food and agriculture—Germany's almost admiration of the nation _definitely _played a role in their easy-going treatment of the Kingdom.


	3. By Coal and Candlelight

_Sorry for the comparative delay with this chapter! To be honest, I have a really hard time with Prussia's character and writing him, so it kind of dragged along for me. I really don't feel like he's very much himself, but I did as well as I could; I'd really appreciate feedback on this point. He definitely wasn't loud enough. I'm also starting to worry a bit about Denmark's character, because this is a pretty emotionally heavy chapter and I personally go "eh" when I see angst like this. Hahaha._

_After this, I think the set up chapters are done, and we can start skipping larger chunks of time between bits. Denmark's gotten over the initial shock of it all, so we can start moving towards actual interesting events and more interaction all around! I'm personally looking forward to getting to the bits with Russia… and Finland…_

_Also, one last thing! Thanks so, so much to **Maria-Pipkin** for entertaining me and fielding all my questions (silly and less silly) about What Denmark Is Actually Like. As you can see, if you're reading this, I worked in one bit already! Hahaha~  
_

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Dä**

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**chapter three.**

But first, Denmark becomes ill. As usual, his boss was right. His population is small enough and he's close enough to them that his connection is stronger than some of the other nations. There's more national unity, cohesiveness, things he's proud of.

There's more shared empathy, shared emotion, shared stress. The first week of the occupation had left him restless and eager to be busy, high-strung and snappy.

The second week leaves him sick in bed.

His people realizing that this wasn't a joke, wasn't a temporary blockade. Buying goods, selling goods, trying to leave, trying to move. Banks keeping erratic hours, new laws, rules, curfews, soldiers, ships using the harbor. This is real. And Christian's orders for Denmark to get out of the capital make sudden, painful sense.

His stomach twists and turns, knots and drops. His chest is tight and hollow, skin stretched taunt over nothing, a drum. His throat is dry, or too wet, he feels headachey and a moment or two away from crying. His heart pounds. He's too hot, then too cold. The fears and anxieties of four million people pound through his body.

He sleeps on and off, having indistinct nightmares. They are his own, not his people's, and worse for it. Vague images of Nor, Sweden, invading armies. Massacres in England, armies walking on the Sound, in his dream not ice but water. He sees everyone he loves dying time and time again. He sees his house burning. He sees his land burning. He sees the ocean rise and drown his people, and then he wakes up, lies in bed sweating, tosses and turns and goes back to sleep.

He throws up most of the food he eats, and only the fact that he doesn't technically need to keeps him from getting sicker, dehydrated. At night it's easier, when less people are awake. He sits at the kitchen table and drinks warm water at four in the morning, chews at progressively harder bread. Then people start to wake, and he goes back to bed. The cat curls up on the extra pillows, the ones he somewhat hopefully still thinks of as Nor's.

But that's about the only thing he thinks of hopefully. He becomes uncharacteristically negative, depressed. The Germans will be here forever. Denmark will go the way of Schleswig and Holstein—how'd you like that, we're a German province. Have you heard the latest news from the United Kingdom? It's not good. He does manage to think about Kierkegaard and smile—life is meaningless, what's the point—but then he starts believing it, utterly and hopelessly, and finds himself crying silently under the sheets.

He can't tell how much is him and how much is his people. Which one would be better? If it's his people, then they're miserable, but if it's him, then he's—then he's weak. And that's a bad thought, because he's not weak—because he doesn't cry or despair or give up. He rebuilds. Makes up for external losses—and—

Now the pillow is wet with tears and he's embarrassed, almost furious with himself, but he can't stop, and a part of him is mutely fascinated. The last time he cried—no, he won't think of that. This isn't as bad as that. He shouldn't be like this, useless and babyish and unbathed and unshaven. But what if this is permanent, he thinks. What if it doesn't go away?

Well—he'll kick Germany's ass. Or anyway, England will.

Right?

He rubs his eyes on the pillowcase and then with great effort throws the pillow halfway across the room. The cat starts and jumps off the bed. Denmark lies back, the effort making him dizzy. But suddenly he's dimly aware that he is conscious of his thoughts and actions. The haze is fading—just a little bit. What's that he's heard women say? Nothing like a good cry? Fuck if he'll admit it, but…

Still. Lying on his back, staring up at the plaster of the ceiling, he thinks that he's still in a bad place. Weak. Sick. And he doesn't really know what will come next. He's had to host invading armies before, but he's never been occupied. Never been under anyone else's power. Never been anyone but himself. He has no frame of reference. For losing wars, sure. But not for this.

He thinks back to the '60s. He'd been sick then, too, and alone, feeding off his people's unhappiness until he was briefly sure he'd like to just die. He'd asked for Nor and Sweden and no one had come, to help or to visit. So he'd imagined them instead.

He tries to imagine them now. Sweden sits in the chair next to his bed, shoulders and back straight, trying to look as uncomfortable as he possibly can because he can't allow anyone the illusion that he wants to be here. But Denmark tells him about Ingrid and the baby, and he relaxes, and they talk slowly. Nor stays silent, sitting cross-legged on the other half of the bed. Every so often he reaches over and moves Denmark's hair so it's more comfortable, puts a hand on his forehead or shoulder while Denmark tells them both a story he makes up on the spot about a sailor whose pocket watch and chain falls to the bottom of the ocean. It is adopted by mermaids who have never seen metal so delicate before, until it rusts.

He imagines Sweden saying it's a nice story, and Norway, not teasing him and only brushing away the tears when they start up again. But since none of it is real, they just slide down, leaving itchy trails.

* * *

Prussia arrives two days after that. Denmark's adjusting by now and eating again, which helps even more then just getting used to things. He fills a mug with broth and takes it to the sitting room to drink on the sofa, and since the window overlooks the street, he's able to see the other nation coming.

Prussia has a way of moving that makes him seem like he's using too much effort; his hands bunch, his shoulders move, he becomes an exaggeration of whatever emotion he's currently feeling. Right now he's carrying what looks like a garment bag and taking big strides. Denmark snuggles back into the sofa, as though Prussia might just walk him by if he doesn't notice, as though Prussia could be here for any other reason but to pay a call.

Figures, he thinks. Germany feels bad, so he sends his brother. He watches Prussia stare at his house, then start up the walk. He takes a quick enough gulp of soup that it burns his throat on the way down, then gets up to answer the door before his visitor starts yelling.

Denmark answers the door in pajama bottoms and a shirt he's buttoned crooked; Prussia is wearing full uniform except for armband. Denmark's never really liked him. Unaware that it's hypocritical, he thinks of Prussia as too loud and too full of himself, and even though there's almost a head's difference between them Prussia acts like he's the bigger one. "Yo, Däne!"

Prussia shoves past Denmark into the house, laughing hoarsely. "Nice damn house you got here! Do you do the gardening yourself? Aww, cute, you got some photographs!" Denmark honestly can't tell if he's being sarcastic or sincere. He shuts the door and turns to see Prussia peering at some framed photographs on the wall; Denmark, his family, his royal family. Plus an advertisement for a chair he'd cut out of a magazine; he likes the design. Prussia inspects them all, then turns back to look at Denmark, thrusting the garment bag out at him. "Look sharp! It's your new uniform. Actually it's one of West's, but he got it modified special."

Denmark does not take the bag. "I'm not wearing it."

"Yeah, new rule. You're wearing it. To official shit anyway, and it's not optional. Ha! I'd say you could wear that or go naked, but I'm betting you'd go naked! You're the same size as West, yeah?"

He's the same height as Germany, but Germany has broader shoulders and a thicker chest. Which is great. If it really is one of Germany's uniforms, he'll get to look skinny and underfed even before he starts losing weight from the blockades. "I'm not wearing it."

"Seriously, dude." Prussia's tone is what passes with him for casual, but his eyes shine dangerously, and he's smirking. "I wouldn't mess with orders."

In truth, he kind of saw this coming. He takes the bag. Before he can tell him to leave, Prussia pushes past him into the sitting room, where he flops down on the sofa. "Try it on, try it on!" he calls. Then: "Hey, coffee! Awesome!"

Denmark figures Prussia isn't leaving either way. As he unbuttons his shirt, he takes great pleasure in Prussia's surprised sputters at swallowing half a mug of beef broth.

"That was a low blow!"

"I spat in it too!" Denmark unzips the bag. The military uniform inside does look almost identical to Germany's. With the addition, he notes with a twist of his stomach, of his flag sewn on the sleeve instead of another insignia. He touches it gently, feeling the fibers beneath his fingers.

"Dammit! I drank your _snot_?" Denmark hears exaggerated spitting from the other room. Anyway, a uniform's really just clothes, and it's not too different from his usual one in design.

Just that it is, too. Suffocatingly so. Prussia is still spiting and yelling about saltiness. All at once, with unusual bitterness that's becoming far too usual, Denmark thinks: _screw it_. "There's beer in the second cupboard from the stove," he calls, taking off his pants.

Germany's uniform _is_ too loose on him, but it's not too bad. There's no wear on the seams, no creases, no odd smells—it could be perfectly new, except that it doesn't surprise Denmark Germany would keep his clothes this neat. He hears Prussia clattering around as he puts on the new shirt and uniform trousers, and figures he'll join him as soon as he's dressed. He could seriously use a beer.

And besides, Prussia's not a half-bad drinking partner. So a couple minutes later, he joins him in the kitchen. Prussia's up on the counter top, beer bottle in hand. Denmark thinks about yelling at him to get off, but doesn't. He doesn't have to obey Prussia, does he?

"Gimme one," he says, waving his hand. Then: "Yer looking good for a dead guy."

"I'm not _dead_," Prussia snaps, and just for that refuses to give Denmark a beer. "I'm _absorbed_. Joined up with. Uh—"

"Annexed." Denmark starts trying to reach around him for a beer. It's difficult because Prussia is sitting right in front of the cabinet where he keeps it, head and shoulders blocking access, so he opens a drawer, climbs up on it, leaning over Prussia. They're close enough to kiss; Prussia immediately starts shoving him. Denmark has to grab his shoulders so that he doesn't topple over, and the bird that always seems to be around Prussia starts pecking at his fingers. "Fuck!"

Prussia punches him in the stomach. Denmark falls back, tripping over the drawer, landing on his ass—but drags Prussia down with him. The nation lands on top of him—Denmark makes a sound like _woomph_—and he hears glass shatter.

"Fuck!" There is a struggle. They both get punched a few times, then roll to other ends of the kitchen. Denmark is satisfied to see Prussia roll into a leg of the kitchen table.

On the other hand, Denmark's rolled into Prussia's puddle of spilled beer, which is kind of gross. As he gets up again, Prussia does too, rambling angrily. Probably aimed at Denmark, but he's not really listening. "—not _annexed_, it doesn't count, I'm too awesome, it's just my little brother's all grown up and needs his own time in the spotlight, hell yes I can share it if it's West, my adorable little brother, he's gonna show all those—France—"

Denmark stops listening at this point. He goes over to the cupboard, kicks the drawer closed, and gets himself a beer. He'd almost forgotten his new uniform until he sees his arm when he reaches—dark green, clean creases—he swallows something sharp and sour and opens the beer.

He thinks about pocket-watches, and decides it's good that Prussia's here. "Oii, dead country, grab another beer," he tells him, sitting at the kitchen table. Then he immediately gets back up again, putting his bottle down and crossing the room.

When Prussia—grumbling about how he's not obeying and Danish beer is stupid—turns around from the cupboard again, Denmark's in the middle of lighting candles. He has six or so in the window, another group in the other one, and three in delicate candle sticks on the table itself. It takes two and a half matches to light them all.

Prussia sits down heavily and puts his boots on the table. "Enjoy 'em while you can, that's another thing I'm here about." He drinks his beer and smirks when Denmark turns to look at him. "West wanted me to check and make sure you remembered the rules. This one's for your own protection! England might bomb you if he sees any lights at night, and we don't want that since we're buddies now." Prussia manages somehow to be both smug, condescending, and incredibly sarcastic. "Curfew's eight."

"I'm not going to bed at eight at fucking night," Denmark says, putting his own boots on the table. He stares at the flickering light, and then downs his bottle.

"Sit up in the dark, I don't give a shit," Prussia shrugs, grinning. "Hell, neither does West. But you're a protectorate. See how 'protect' is right in it?" He says both words in English, which the Danish and German version is derived from anyway. "We gotta look out for you, since you're our new buddy!"

That _is_ sarcasm. Denmark figures Prussia likes him about as much as the other way around, but more than that…

Denmark isn't the sharpest guy. He's not like Nor, who seems to be able to figure things out just by looking, or Sweden, who will spend hours thinking until he figures it out. He works more on feel, and likes it that way. And as much as he loves Nor (and hates Sweden—really—), Nor doesn't have much of an instinct for people who aren't his. Sweden doesn't even try. Hell, there's a reason Denmark's the one best at diplomacy, treaties, and making friends—besides a lack of shyness.

Prussia is annexed. Prussia is sensitive about it. Prussia is sending messages, running errands. And thinking to what he remembers of politics before they became too personal to want to look at—"Ya with yer bro on this?" Denmark asks.

It's just a guess.

"I'm with West one million fucking percent!" Prussia snaps, and drinks the rest of his beer.

"I'm not blowing out the candles," Denmark grumbles.

"If you do, you getta wish," Prussia cackles, and after a minute Denmark figures out that was a joke.

He throws a bottle cap at Prussia. "Get two more beers," he adds. "I wanna get fucking wasted."

"It won't help you," Prussia says, and slouches further in the chair.

"It won't help _you_," Denmark says back, and gets the beers himself.

* * *

He wants to smile. He wants to get drunk and run around in too-few clothes, jump in the harbor, sing drinking songs, make a nuisance, get arrested for public disturbance and get released immediately for not being an ordinary human after all. Have a really bad hangover and try disgusting remedies and then just sleep all day.

Jensen—his usual liaison with the government, when he wasn't there personally—would show up around three and plead with him to check out this or talk to that person, then scold him about the mess in his study. Then Denmark would drag himself out of bed and do his work, sitting on the floor of his office cross-legged, and follow Jensen home for dinner: he has three kids, all girls, none of them older than ten, and Denmark likes playing with them.

Come to think of it, he hasn't heard from Jensen since the war… arrived? Came here? Was fought and lost? …in two weeks, then. Something else to worry about.

For now he gets drunk with Prussia, half hoping to get sauced enough that he ruins his new uniform. It doesn't happen, but they both pass out long before eight, and the candles melt down to wax stubs, puddling over the edges of the sticks and holders. It's a pain to clean up the next day.

* * *

**footnotes.**

The references to the '60s refer, of course, to the 1860s. Denmark lost Schleswig-Holstein (Slesvig-Holsten) to Prussia and Austria, and while he had been promised support from Sweden-Norway, none actually came. After the loss of this land (very well populated and good farm land), Denmark fell into a national depression of a very large scale, pulling out in the 1880s with a series of national and social reforms and the hilarious-to-me slogan of _hvad udadtil tabes må indadtil vinde_: "what we lose externally we must compensate for inwardly." Or in other words, "forget about all that land we don't have, let's just make what is left over awesome instead!" (Or in other _other_ words, "who needs land? I'm already great! Yeah!")

Denmark really did have his very own special uniform during WWⅡ, as described in the story: basically the same as a German soldier's. Danes joined the German army, both willingly and less willingly, and so Denmark wearing the uniform too makes a very strong statement over what side everyone should be on.

Just as Prussia denies, Prussia _was _annexed by Germany before the war, like Austria and several others. The connection between Prussia and Germany is actually kind of confusing—the Kingdom of Prussia gave way to Germany, but Prussia was still for a long time the government of Germany. The Prussians as a rule did _not _support the war and Hitler in the least, partially because Hitler was Austrian, but of course Prussia-the-character has somewhat more complicated feelings on the entire matter. As we'll see.

Like many countries during the war, Denmark had a strict curfew and blackout rule, and was not allowed to have lights on after 8 PM. I don't know exactly when this rule was established in Denmark, but for the sake of the story it's a minor detail.


	4. A Little Too Late, A Little Too Soon

**DÄ

* * *

****chapter four.**

He'd woken up with a hangover and Prussia's foot in his face, neither of which were all that pleasant. Prussia himself wasn't much better, but after making him cook them both breakfast and some yelling, the nation had been on his way.

After that, Denmark had been left alone.

* * *

A few days after Prussia leaves, Denmark decides to go find Jensen. It's cloudy and looks like rain, but the wind's not bad and that's enough of an excuse for him to get out of the house.

He spends the morning feeling excited, almost like his usual self—he gets up early and goes to the market, gets some fresh groceries without thinking about rationing—it's not fully in effect yet—and takes them back home. The air outside is damp and fresh smelling, the trees are that super bright green. It's just a nice day, even with the threat of rain. He can't help but feel better.

Denmark gets home and starts opening windows and blinds, feeds the cat some extra cream, and sets about making himself a lunch. He slices some pork thin and starts sauteing it in butter, and thinks: why stop here?

When the sandwiches are done—pork, cheese, apple and onion with butter—he packs them in wax paper and starts baking. It starts to rain but doesn't last long, and he's a little cold and feeling good for the first time in weeks.

He learned to cook slowly over the years—taking care of himself first, then becoming self-sufficient once servants became uncommon. He kind of likes it in some strange way, like hunter-gatherer, providing for his family, creating and sharing. Of course, in an empty house…

The cat twines around his legs, and he grins and bends to pet it. Well, someone's still around. He still hasn't gotten direct word to his territories, but he did get a message that the United Kingdom and America are watching them. It's better than nothing.

So he makes cookies and thinks about making a cake of some kind, then realizes that would take too long. When they're baking, he cleans up the kitchen and tosses a bit of thread around for the cat, who pretends to be interested and then wanders off.

He thinks about going to say hi to Anna next door, but she's kind of been avoiding him. Instead Denmark gets out his bike and cleans it. When he's done he goes inside and cleans up, then takes the cookies out of the oven to cool, changes into better clothes for traveling.

Then Denmark packs his lunch, gets on his bike, and starts the ride to Jensen's place. He doesn't live in Roskilde itself, but in one of the little other towns in the municipality, about a forty minute ride away. Outside of the city the countryside looks the same as always—he bikes past farms and cattle. Bikes around a horse-pulled farm wagon but not many travelers. He can guess why—but it's easier out here. He's not like Nor, staring at trees all day, and he loves living in the city, with his people at all sides. But the country—well, he's old and remembers when this is all there ever was.

So Denmark takes his time. He leaves the main road—there are a few cars—in favor of the older roads, checks out some farms, considers biking to the beach—it's never too far, and Denmark has never gotten worn out like humans do. Biking leaves him tired, but as an afterthought. He doesn't even think to be exhausted now.

He winds his way around taking the longest possible route to the town Jensen lives in, feeling good. Cool but not too cold, the rain never started again, and the countryside—_his _countryside—is fresh and green. When he makes it to the outskirts of the town, two hours after leaving, Denmark stops in the market and buys a drink.

It's a small town and looks like most of his towns do: cheerful red roofs, cheerful yellow houses, people going about their business. Denmark supposes there's probably a German or two somewhere, but he can't immediately see any signs of them. Which is good.

He wheels his bike into a square—a few trees and garden patches, a statue of a man on a horse with a plaque on the base, some benches—and sits at one. This is a small town, so it's probably largely beneath the Germany's notice. The idea of that relaxes Denmark, and he eats his lunch and finds it delicious, praises his own abilities in making it, finds the bottle of milk he's bought exceptionally delicious, and—although he doesn't really notice it as such—feels his spirits lift until he really is feeling like his old self.

It's just the absence of people…! He smiles and greets the few he sees pass through the square, but even for a small town in the middle of the day, it's quiet. It's worrisome.

But he's finally in a good enough mood again that he can put those thoughts aside. He briefly thinks about moving out to the country for the rest of the occupation, but then finishes his lunch, folds up the wax paper, and puts it and the bottle back in his bag to throw out later.

Then it's back on his bike to Jensen's house. Denmark has an innate sense of direction when it comes to his own land. Doesn't even have to think about it if he's been there before—which he has. He makes his way through town, turning down one side street and then another.

Jensen's house looks like most of the houses in his neighborhood, except that he has less of a garden. His dogs are not out in the lawn as they normally are, and Denmark hops off the bike and leans it against the garden gate. "_Hej_," he yells, going up the walk. "Hans! Ya here?"

There's no barking or voices to greet him, which makes Denmark wonder. Still, he walks up the walk and knocks on the door. "Hey, family, it's me!" His volume falters when he still gets no reply. Could the family have gone somewhere? In the middle of the week? Besides, the elder two daughters were in school… He knocks again. "Jensen family? Hey, it's Den!"

There's still no response. He moves away from the door to look into the entryway window—nothing much, but it's just a foyer. He's moving to check out one of the other windows when he hears an elderly voice from behind him: "They're not here, you know."

Denmark turns quickly and steps in a bush. There's an elderly man standing at the front walk, cane in one hand and dressed formal, but that's not Denmark's concern. "They're not?" He attempts to step out of the bush, but his foot is stuck in branches. Fuck.

"…Left for Sweden right after the invasion. Hans told me he had family in America and had gotten tickets for a ship. He had government influence, you know." Throughout this speech, the man's expression didn't change.

"Yeah, I—oof!" There, his foot was free. He shook it and headed towards the man. "—knew that. Knew 'em. What? _What?_" As it starts to sink in. "No way, no one even _told _me, what about the dogs?" He shakes his head again. "No way."

"My wife and I are taking care of Rosie and Daisy," the man says. Rosie and Daisy—a terrier mix and a sheepdog. Jensen would joke about it—wife, daughters, dogs, call them all his girls. How many men get to live with six lovely ladies, he'd joke.

Denmark's stomach seems to grow hot and then fall away. Gone. Without a word. He'd sent Jensen a present when his youngest daughter was born, gone to her christening, the man had spare keys to Denmark's house, he'd _liked _them and they'd just _left_, _run_, he'd known people were but not _people he knew_…

The man, who is at least sixty but still has a lot of black in his hair, peers up at Denmark. "I can see you're upset about this."

"…Have ya heard from 'em?" he asks sharply, almost taking the man by his shoulders and shaking. "Did they make it to Sve—Sweden?" He has an absurd mental image of his brother meeting them in the harbor, shaking hands with Hans.

"Not since they left." The man continues to look Denmark in the eye. "My name is Aage Hirsch."

"Preben Kierkegaard," Denmark says. That's his human alias right now. He changes it every now and then, but this one has stuck for a few decades and he thinks it might last.

"You called yourself Den when you were shouting," says Hirsch.

Oops.

Denmark's identity isn't a huge secret—plenty of people know—but it is usually easier to go around as a human during day to day life. Hr. Preben Kierkegaard is a 30-year-old bachelor (who is fortunate enough to look younger than he is). He grew up in a small village in northern Jutland, and can carefully cultivate the proper accent to go with it. Wanting more out of life he moved to Copenhagen and began working in finance, getting a post in the government working with the regulation of trade between Denmark and its territories. He also has three adopted children and suitably long and boring backstories as to how that came to be.

Denmark did not get the chance to create this back-story—if he had, it would have involved a lot more adventure and sea battles—but it's legitimate for all intents and purposes, and makes getting a automobile license a lot easier.

So Denmark shrugs. "It's like a nickname." He can't help but be curious now—all his citizens leave him like this, with a compulsion to get to know them better, be their friend. So he introduces himself as Preben and asks: "Are you _going _to hear from Hans?"

"I doubt it," Hirsch huffs, and taps his cane on the sidewalk. "When you get to my age, you feel the cold in your bones. And it's going to start raining again. If you want to talk, we'll go to my place."

He'd kind of been hoping for an invitation anyway, but Hirsch isn't done yet: he's suspicious of a lie, Denmark realizes dimly. Although he still trusts him. That's not surprising. His people are connected to him right back. "How do you know Hans and family?" the man asks, slowly leading the walk to his house—a smaller cottage next door to the Jensen house. With a nicer garden.

"I work with Hans," Denmark says.

"That's a lot of concern for a coworker."

"We're buddies!"

"Your bike is muddy."

Denmark is grinning a bit. He's not sure why, but the old man's interrogation is endearing itself to him. "It's a bit of a ride from Roskilde."

"All the way from Roskilde to visit a coworker?" At the front door now, the old man turns and gives Denmark a suspicious look. But doesn't stop him from entering his home. "Take off your shoes."

Denmark takes off his shoes. "It's not far."

"It is when you're my age," the man huffs. Denmark grins again. Then Hirsch calls out: "Johanna! We have a guest!"

Then there are dogs barking and Denmark hears a door open and close. All at once the two dogs are upon him and Hirsch, tails wagging and jumping all around; Denmark kneels to pet them. A woman no younger than her husband, but with whiter hair, comes into the entry hall next.

"Good afternoon…"

"Says his name's Kierkegaard," Hirsch says.

Denmark straightens up, scratching Daisy's ears, then offers Johanna his hand to shake. "Preben," he says.

She hesitates but shakes his hand. "It's a pleasure."

The entry leads directly into the sitting room. Denmark notices it's clean and somewhat bare. No photographs or pictures on the walls, not much in the way of decoration. The radio is huge and ancient looking. A open doorway leads into the dining room; through there is probably also the kitchen. He guesses a single bedroom and bathroom, and that the couple have no children.

"I'm a buddy of Hans next door," Denmark says, distracting himself away from his curiosity about these two of his people. "He didn't tell me he was leaving."

"Why would he?" Hirsch mutters, and Johanna bats his arm with her hand.

"Hush. We only barely knew ourselves. His wife came by with the doggies the morning they left, the poor girls were so sad to part with them… please, come in and have a seat." She gestures towards the sitting room. "I'll make some tea."

Hirsch uses his cane even in the house and sits in a worn chair. He's taken his hat off, revealing better his suspicious face, but Denmark's guessing he's always like that. Or at least has been for the past two weeks. But he has a guess as to why that is, too. There are a lot of rumors.

"You have a nice house," Denmark says.

"Not for long, once those damn Germans send their tanks up these streets."

"They're not going to do that," Denmark says, harsher and meaning it: they won't. It won't be allowed. Not here and not anywhere.

Hirsch looks at him. "You're saying that with authority." It sounds like a question but isn't one, and Denmark isn't really sure how to respond. When Johanna comes back in a minute or two later with biscuits, sits down on the love seat, Hirsch speaks again. "The reason I'm having you over is that I want to ask you a question. Hans told me he worked for the government."

Denmark wonders if Hans told his neighbor what exactly his job was, who he was liaison to. It wouldn't matter if he had, except that Denmark would be caught in something close to a lie. "Yeah, he does. Did. We do. …Did."

"Before he went for Sweden," Hirsch says, amending Denmark's confused tenses with something like amusement. For the first time since hearing the news, Denmark doesn't feel betrayed or hurt—it's like a click or a shift. His liaison made it out. Away from the Germans. With his wife and kids. They'd stay in Stockholm or even better, go to America, learn English, settle down somewhere… maybe somewhere with mountains. Get new dogs. Be safe. He imagines visiting them in a year or so, after Germany is gone. Decides it's going to happen.

Then he pulls himself out of the daydream when he notices the Hirsches watching him. "Yeah," he says.

"So you work for the government too?"

Oh, is that all? "Yup," Denmark says, leaning back into his chair. Johanna excuses herself again to finish the tea.

Hirsch nods, his mouth thinning. "I thought as much. There's something I need to know. My wife and I have lived in this town all our lives. I grew up two streets away. I married her in '02. We've been good citizens. Pay our taxes. Keep things tidy. We were never blessed with children but we have lived _good lives_, Hr. Kierkegaard."

Whatever this request is, Denmark realizes with a sudden hollow feeling he doesn't want to hear it. He won't be able to do it, whatever it is. But maybe he can. If they need food, hell, he can pull some strings, give them his rations, and if—

"We need to get out of Denmark too," Hirsch finishes.

Oh.

The tight, hollow feeling comes back, the idea that his chest is a drum, a pouch with a single stone—his heart. They want to leave. They want to go. They don't _trust _him, they don't believe—_it's just like Sweden_, he thinks wildly, and then tries to calm himself down before it becomes too obvious that he's started to sweat. "I can't do that," he says hoarsely.

Hirsch might be wondering, but he has other things on his mind. "There must be a ship! Some way out of this goddamn country!"

Denmark stares down at his lap and feels sweat creep down his neck. "There's no way out. If Jensen got out he was…" Lucky? Lucky to get out? Lucky to leave? Lucky to be away from him? The good feelings and imaginings are gone. And he doesn't notice, but one of the dogs whimpers. "It'll be okay. The Germans like m… us."

Johanna silently comes back into the sitting room with a tray full of tea things. She sets it down on the table. Unlike her husband, she can see Denmark's distress, but she sits down gingerly. Hirsch continues: "That's shit! The government always has a way out. When the Germans come, they'll leave like rats in a sinking ship. I've lived my entire life here—"

"And yer goddamn scared!" Denmark snaps, lifting his head and glaring at the old man straight in the eye. "Ya feel abandoned. Ya feel like there's nothing anyone did to stop it, but the Germans are already here, and this is as bad as it's ever gonna get, right _now_, because we're doing our fucking best, and ya can't always fight! Ya can't! Even if ya want to, ya can't, because then people die, and they die easy and they die fast! So we have to play friends and play nice and hope, goddamn hope, and put our trust in—in God, because I won't _let it _get worse! So trust me! Trust in me! If ya've lived here yer entire lives, _trust in me!_" He's half standing and swallows thickly, sitting back down slow. But his heart is racing.

Johanna looks shocked; Hirsch just looks angrier. But it's she who speaks next, quietly, very quietly. "I have family in Germany," she says, and puts a hand over her breast. "We've heard…"

Denmark puts his head in his hands. Screw appearances. Trust me. Trust me. I'll never hurt you. I'll never leave you. I have your back. I always will. I'll protect you. But Sweden had left. Everyone leaves. Why is he so hard to trust? What is he doing wrong? Why is this happening again? Worse, stronger—he sees Germany's face, bruises already fading. You lose even by winning. He presses the heels of his palms into his eyelids and thinks of the uniform hanging in his closet. Then he rips that thought away and turns his attention back to the elderly couple before him. He'd guessed as soon as he'd heard Aage and Johanna's surname, and speaks in a hollow voice. "You're Jews."

"We're both retired, so they can't close down our work," Hirsch says stiffly. "But we don't have a lot of money. We can't take _risks_."

"Being—" mine, he almost said. "Being Danish isn't a risk!" He presses harder and sees bright flowers bloom; he removes his hands and sits back up, dry eyed, unable to see for a moment. The blackness slowly recedes. And he knows suddenly that he could find them a ship. Could get them to America. Could tuck them away, could provide them food and money, could put them in his pocket and protect them until Germany left. It would be easy.

But there are others. Others with businesses that will be shut down. Others who will lose their homes. He can help these two, or maybe a few others. But not everyone. Not directly. He represents the kingdom, but no one has that much power.

But he stands up and reaches into his pocket anyway. Pulls out his wallet. He's provided a monthly stipend by the government, more than enough to live on, and owns some property that he bought in the 18th century and gets rent on. By his own standards, he's pretty wealthy. So he throws money onto the table, everything in his wallet: 170 kroner and a piece of hard candy.

He kind of considers taking the candy back.

"Use this to buy food. Staples. Flour and stuff that'll keep. Stock up now before it gets scarce. Don't worry about meat. But get sugar."

"We can't take your money," Johanna says. Hirsch just looks furious.

Denmark puts his now empty wallet back in his pocket. "You can." _You_, he thinks. Not _ya._ "You wanted my help." His voice is cold, although he's not angry at them. But his heart is still racing—

He glances out the window and sees that it's raining again. The room is dark. He hadn't noticed it dimming.

"We wanted to know if there were ships—"

"No. If there were, you woulda wanted me to get you on one. You wanted my help. You wanted Hans' help. You want someone's help, and you got it, and I'm gonna take care of you and everyone," Denmark says fast. "I am. Every single person. So take the money. And if you see a German on the street…" He thinks of Germany and Prussia: the former refusing to fight him, the latter singing drinking songs with him on his sofa. "Don't spit at him."

"You're telling us to be nice to them?" Hirsch stands up slowly, leaning on his cane.

"Hell no!" He's sort of aghast that was the message the man had gotten. "I'm telling you to…" He sees Germany again, Germany with a bloody nose, and sees Germany's boss reminding him to be gentle. "…to not give them a reason to make things worse."

Once upon a time Denmark had gotten a piano. He'd been very bad at it, on the verge of giving up entirely, when Iceland had taken an interest in it—a child's passing interest for a new object. Denmark had sat him on the bench beside him and tried to explain how to play, how it worked, not really understanding himself. But somehow in the explaining he had gotten it right, and was able to pick out a tune for the first time since receiving it, teach Iceland to play the same piece.

Afterwards, he'd bragged about it to Nor, of course; not just how great a player he was, but how awesome a teacher. Norway hadn't been impressed. _You're a good teacher only because you're a slow learner_, he'd said.

Because the best way to understand was to try and help someone else do the same. It was the same now. He'd already half known. To punch Germany, to make him bleed, would just lead to punishment and a shorter leash. To run and flee and hide would only make Germany—no, the Germans—seek him out. To make an effort to obey…

He sits down again, slowly. "'Cause they will make things worse if they have to. They're bastards. But they don't want to. They're bastards, but they like us. And they don't want us to hate them."

"It's always the Germans," Hirsch grumbles, sitting back down himself. Johanna with the German family members makes a soft objection, but he ignores her. "They want to be friends? _Bah_. They broke the non aggression pact!"

Denmark continues to stare at his lap. He doesn't want to explain. That the leash goes two ways, at least a little. But it's so exhausting. Some things he doesn't want to teach. Or learn. "Just trust me," he says.

And to his surprise, Hirsch huffs and says, "I do. I don't know why, but I do. So we're not taking your money."

"I don't need it," Denmark says quietly. "I can just ask for more." Although he's not sure who. Jensen usually handled that. Then again, it's a good excuse to go back to Copenhagen…

"I shouldn't trust you," Hirsch continues. "You're a mess, it's the middle of the day and you're not working, and I think you're using a false name."

"Dear," says Johanna.

"People trust me," Denmark says. "I have a face like that." And the connection goes two ways. He's pretty sure Germans or Englishmen don't trust him on sight. He could just tell them, explain everything… but Hirsch is sharp, and if this is the level of interrogation he gives to a stranger he trusts… Denmark isn't sure he has the energy for it right now.

The tea sits on the table, forgotten by all three, surrounded by the money and cooling fast. Denmark leans and reaches for the piece of hard candy, dusts it off with his thumb, and pops it in his mouth.

He doesn't touch the money, and neither do they.

* * *

**footnotes.**

I completely made up the town Denmark visits, thus why it has no name. I apologize for inaccuracies in describing Danish villages in northern Zealand during the 1940s. I wanted to use a real one but that's surprisingly hard to find on the internet when you don't speak Danish…

Denmark stutters "Sweden" because he thinks of him by the nickname "Sve," but then remembered to use his full name, "Sverige." Apparently it's Hetalia canon that he uses "Sweden" (in English) most of the time, but I assume when he's speaking Danish he just uses the Danish name.

Aage was apparently a pretty popular name for a boy born in 1900. The character would have been born in the 1870s or '80s, but I couldn't find any lists of boy's names from that long ago. The surname, Hirsch, is Yiddish in origin and pretty damn German sounding, which isn't all _that _uncommon in Denmark (even if in this story Denmark might try to deny that). We'll find out a bit more about the family, but it's not a super important detail.

170 Kroner is about $30 American, about £19. In 1940, this would be equal to roughly $460/£290/2,581 kroner today, due to inflation. Mind you, this is _very _approximate and all based off of American inflation—I was unable to find a Danish inflation chart, so used American currency as a base. Either way, it's a pretty decent sum to be carrying around.


	5. Done Things in Small Doses

_Yet again, sorry it took so long! I hit a major slump with this story. Likewise, I'm afraid this chapter is mostly filler due to how hard it was to write, but hopefully the next one will be more engaging! As a final note, as doesn't allow for "crossed out" text, in the letter later on in the chapter, underlined words are the ones that are crossed out._

* * *

**Dä**_  
_

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**chapter five.**

Johanna invites him, so Denmark stays for dinner. He helps lay the table, and when he peeks back into the living room, the money is gone. Well, good. He'd have had to argue if they hadn't taken it; maybe get the government to help him track down and deposit it directly in their bank accounts—this stuff is too complicated, so he's glad not to need to.

Hirsch is still grumpy, but his wife seems to be trying to engage and wash the tension away. Dinner is simple but good, and the dogs circle the table and try to look cute for snacks.

"You've lived here forever?" Denmark asks, sneaking Rosie and Daisy some of his fish.

"Two streets down," Hirsch says.

"We met in grammar school," Johanna elaborates, touching her husband's hand. "Both our families are from the south—"

"South?" South means Germany. Denmark didn't mean to interrupt, and blinks and stuffs some bread in his mouth to hide it.

Hirsch nods. "My parents moved here after the war. Three elder siblings, but I was born here. They lived in Kiel for generations. A damn shame."

"My mother was German herself, from Holstein," Johanna said, "but in the case of my parents, they decided they'd rather be Danish when the war came."

The war. Denmark rubs at his thigh without thinking about it: when Prussia and Austria had taken Schleswig and Holstein from him, he'd gained a scar on his right leg and a limp for several years. And lost much more. "Glad they decided to stay," he says without thinking.

"Why?" Hirsch says. Denmark doesn't really know what to say to not sound suspicious, like a country glad for his people. What would Hr. Kierkegaard say? Something philosophical?

"Uh," he says.

"If they hadn't, I don't know if we'd be in a better or worse situation," Hirsch grumbles instead.

"Worse," Johanna says softly. Denmark notices her feeding Rosie part of her roll. "I still have cousins in Germany."

"It'll be okay, I told ya guys," Denmark says, mixing his potatoes and gravy together with his bread, sprinkling it with pepper, and then eating the resulting mush. "Germany doesn't want m—everyone fighting." He mashes his food fiercely, pretending it's Germany. Then he realizes they're both watching him and stops, goes back to eating.

"I was talking to Kristina earlier today, and she said she ran into some soldiers yesterday," Johanna says, clearly addressing her husband. Denmark shovels his food into his mouth, but listens. The soldiers had snapped at her when she was out past curfew, even though she was heading home from the hospital (Denmark wasn't sure what she was doing in the hospital, but apparently the Hirsches knew). They had given her a hard time, but ultimately let her pass. It had been frightening.

Hirsch is of the opinion that that just shows what has gone wrong with Germany in the past generation; his father's generation would never have done this. In the past hundred years, it's clear that something has gone wrong with how children are raised; some missing core of respect and understanding for other nations. Even Sweden seems to have learned or remembered it lately, he adds, and Denmark starts laughing and choking all at once.

"Are you alright?" Johanna asks, hurriedly pouring him more water. He coughs and drains it just as quickly, his eyes watering.

"Yeah! I ate it wrong!" he coughs a few more times, but the lump in his throat is gone. The old man doesn't know how right he is. Except for maybe the Sweden thing. Denmark leans back in his seat. "I was just thinking that Germany's been a brat since he popped up."

Tall as he may be, Germany's damn young. Even America's older. And Germany's the reason Prussia's stepped up being a dick lately—he thinks of Prussia suddenly, sprawled out and snoring on his sofa, skinny and taking orders from an Austrian. For some reason it bothers him instead of cheering him up.

"He?" Hirsch says.

"Uh… the Fatherland, ya know… Can I have more fish?" he holds his plate out to Johanna. She serves him another piece, and he covers it in his remaining potato and white sauce mush. "Yup, no matter how you look at it. Politically, Germany's been a dick forever now. The last war was no good either." Even if in the Great War his neutrality had actually been upheld.

"People are less civilized in this era," Johanna offers. "I'm certain there it was more courteous in the past. When there were knights and chivalry, like in the stories. If you were in a war then, there was none of this nonsense."

Denmark had once worn knight's armor. Denmark had tried to destroy Sweden over the smallest slights or little more than boredom, allied with Netherlands to destroy England just because he was paid, overthrown kings to gain advantage, gone on Crusades, captured and sold Estonia, and one November day in Stockholm, beaten Sweden until his hands bled and watched a massacre. He wasn't sure wars were any better or worse than they ever had been. Only politics had changed.

"What about vikings?" he asks her, just out of curiosity.

"Those weren't really wars, were they?" With the cautious frown of someone who isn't sure and doesn't really know history.

Denmark doesn't argue, just shrugs.

Hirsch hmphs. "Women oughtn't try and understand politics," he tells his wife, who doesn't seem offended.

"Hr Kierkegaard," she says to Denmark instead; "would you like dessert? I have some cake and some almond tart in the larder. We might as well eat it now," she adds, directed at her husband, who doesn't argue.

Denmark can hear rain on the windows, and staying is tempting. But it's getting close to curfew. He shakes his head. "I gotta get back to Roskilde."

"Of course," Johanna says, and they all stand. She clears the table and the dogs get active again, chasing them all around for attention. Hirsch shoos them out from underfoot, and Denmark grabs a last piece of bread and sticks it in his pocket when no one is paying attention.

There are hands to shake and farewells to say. Denmark also makes sure to write down their full names and address so that he can bring it with him to Copenhagen, which gets Hirsch suspicious again. Johanna come out of the kitchen with a piece of cake wrapped in paper, hands are shaken, and then he hugs her and him. They both are startled. "I'll come back soon," he promises, and he means it. He doesn't break his promises.

By the time he leaves the house, Rosie trying to follow him out, it is already curfew. The streets are black. Denmark would get lost or bike into a tree if this wasn't his home; even so it's difficult.

He kind of hopes to run into soldiers, cause a fuss, but he doesn't. In a way, it doesn't surprise him.

He arrives home at half past nine, soaking wet. The cat is waiting for him.

* * *

Denmark plans to spend the next day napping and maybe cleaning up his garden a bit. It's already almost May and he's not sure how. But at noon, shortly after rolling out of bed, there's a knock on his door.

He opens it in his pajamas; it is a man in the uniform of a messenger, and he delivers a telegram with wide eyes that mean—yup. The message is addressed to the Kingdom.

It's from his boss. At last, he'd being called back to Copenhagen.

He'll be gone for a while. He gets dressed and takes the cat next door for Anna to watch over; then he goes home and packs. Properly, this time. Stationary and pens so he won't have to borrow them, two sets of plain clothes—he can wear a suit there so he won't have to worry about packing one. He hesitates. After a long internal debate, he adds the uniform Prussia delivered, brushing his fingers over the insignia as he folds it. Then he shakes his head and goes to find his razor and toothbrush.

He's happy to climb abroad the train. It's almost empty, which isn't as nice, but it gives him room to sprawl out and re-read the telegram:

COME TO COPENHAGEN BY OFFICIAL REQUEST. REPORT TO THE PALACE AS SOON AS YOU ARRIVE. YOU WILL STAY THROUGH THE CHRISTENING.

He was already disappointed to have missed the birth of the princess—the announcement had been crowded in with his other mail during the week he was ill. Denmark was really looking forward to meeting her. It was too bad it wasn't a prince, but really, he loved all of his bosses family. He was sure she was adorable, and made a note to stop in a toy shop before heading to the palace, to buy her a birthday gift. And maybe something for her parents as well. Let's see, what kind of things would they like…

In this way, the train ride passed quickly as he ignored the words _official request_. Anything his boss said was automatically an official request and they both knew it. For it to be stated meant it was probably someone else's.

He spent the rest of the train ride smoking and writing a letter on his leg to try and send to Norway:

* * *

Nor

Hope you're OK. I'm doing great OK. Germany and Prussia both came to visit and I gave them a tour and went drinking but it wasn't anything much. Got word that America & England are looking after the kids so they're OK have you heard from them?

Ingrid has had a baby girl. I'm on my way to visit now. Things are OK here and I can do that without trouble I hope they're good at your house too. If they aren't give them hell! I can't but it's not like I'm giving up or anything so I hope you don't think I'm just rolling over because

I miss you! We'll hang out soon! It's already been a month so I guess it'll probably only be a little longer. There's no way this will be like the Great War people are too knowing of that to let Germany try it twice.

So lets meet again soon!

All my love as always,

Den

* * *

He rereads it when he's done. His handwriting is worse than usual due to the train's shaking and his leg being used as a table, but it looks okay to him. Nor doesn't like long letters much, and he's not sure what he can say. Talking about Jensen and the Hirsches would be weird on paper. Talking about his illness… he wonders if Norway was sick too, but before he can decide whether or not to add that question, the train whistle blows and he realizes he's arrived in Copenhagen.

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**footnotes.**

Admittedly this is a bit of a filler/gap chapters as i try to get back into the habit of updating this story! Next chapter should have politics and action, and we'll finally start moving through time faster. Just for the record, it's around April 24th in the story right now. Sorry it's a little boring, I'll try and make the next chapter more engaging!

The Hirsches are referring to the Schleswig-Holstein wars, when Prussia took Denmark's two southern-most provinces, sparking a huge national depression. Both families chose to move into the northern remaining part of Denmark after the land was ceded to Prussia and Austria. I'm not sure how common or uncommon this was.

Denmark's reminiscing about the past includes references to several events in the past, most of them are probably pretty self explanatory except for perhaps the couple of times during the Anglo-Dutch Wars he allied with his buddy Holland to fight England, mostly because Holland paid him to.

The baby born is of course the current queen, Margrete II. She was born 16 April 1940, and christened 14 May 1940. At the time of her birth, women could not legally take the throne, and so her uncle remained second in line until the law was changed around 1947.

Interestingly but logically enough, World War II wasn't called "World War II" for a while after it began, nor was WWI called that. It was the Great War, and II was the "war in Europe" until it became clear that it really was the sequel. There's not an official time the name changed, but in US almanacs at least, it took until 1942 or so for the switch to take place. For that reason, Denmark is calling them "the Great War" and "this war," and doesn't believe it will last half as long as the last big European mess.

As a side note, the story can be read with the original (nice) formatting and fonts on my writing journal at this link: community. livejournal. com / ightning / 18433. html

Just remove the spaces and you should be all set!


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